


Anchor

by LeilaSecretSmith (orphan_account)



Series: Hushed [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mairon wears the pants in this relationship and no one can convince me otherwise, Melkor is terrified of his husband, Not a direct translation of the headcanon that inspired this, but I hope it's good anyways, fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LeilaSecretSmith
Summary: ‘Precious,’ he called them, the gems set in his iron crown.





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceruleanshark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleanshark/gifts).



> Some of cerulean-shark's Tumblr headcanons put this thing in my head. I did a sketch because I didn't feel like writing, but of course the best way to get into a writing mood is to say you're not in a writing mood. Apparently.

‘Precious,’ he called them, the gems set in his iron crown.

That word tumbled from his addled mind, a product of the profound impulsiveness that Mairon so often teased him about. Worse, his dear Lieutenant was  _ right there.  _ For the first time in a while, Melkor snapped awake, the haze of the dratted gems on his brow lifted through sheer terror.

Mairon’s nostrils flared. It was one of his more noticeable tells, one Melkor had first learned to beware ages ago when he'd brashly and brazenly invaded Mairon’s workshop, crowding the shorter ainu against his anvil and earning a white-hot fireball to the face for his troubles. It was a tell that spoke of barely restrained fury and impending violence.

Mairon turned, squarely meeting Melkor’s wide eyes, but said not a word. After a moment of breathless silence, he turned and left without being dismissed. That was one of the few open insubordinations Melkor allowed him to get away with. Usually, it was playful. Usually, it meant ‘follow me, darling, let’s have some fun,’ because Mairon liked nothing more than a teasing chase. It meant the same thing this time, but with a profoundly different tone. ‘Follow me.  _ Now _ .”

Melkor followed.

He found Mairon in their quarters, already devoid of armor, staring into the roaring fireplace with his arms crossed over his chest. Melkor shut the door behind him, cautiously, and Mairon only turned to face him once the lock had clicked into place. The fallen Vala caught his breath. Mairon’s golden eyes were full of a furious, broken-hearted kind of hurt, glistening with unshed tears.

“Take that crown off,  _ husband, _ ” he said in a deceptively calm voice. “It is too heavy for you.  _ Take it off. _ ”

Melkor exhaled slowly, reaching up and gingerly removing the crown. Mairon trilled a note (sharp, flutelike, an E that could shatter glass) and the crown went flying from his hands. It landed on a pillow on the opposite side of the room. A second trill later and it was buried beneath a pile of blankets, its holy light muffled. The room became warmer, lit only by flickering red light—both from the fire and from Mairon himself.

He should have apologized. Melkor had crossed an uncrossable line and he  _ knew  _ it. But the words caught in his throat, choking him, because the anger in Mairon had faded, putting his soul-wrenching hurt on full display. The Maia watched him, making no move to come closer or move further away. His message was clear:  _ fix this yourself. _

“Mairon…”  _ I’m sorry. _ He couldn’t say it aloud. It wasn’t enough. He stepped forward suddenly, nearly violently. Mairon made no move to dodge as Melkor approached and swept him up into his arms. His body was tense, coiled like a spring. There was no romantic melting into one another’s embrace—not today.

Melkor carried his husband to their favorite armchair and sat, draping Mairon’s legs to one side and wrapping both arms around his slim torso. He opened his fëa, inviting, contrite, along their marriage bond.  _ Forgive me _ , he said, not in words but in soul-deep truth. It was only then that Mairon melted, the tension falling away as he reciprocated with only a moment’s hesitation, melding their fëar together.

Mairon was the first to speak, once they had settled from emotional exchange into communion. “I’m so scared I’m losing you, Melkor,” he whispered, the words ghosting across Melkor’s bare skin.

The Vala tightened his grip. “You’re not. I swear you’re not, Precious.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Mairon snapped, his fëa flaring with  _ fear-anger-inevitability _ . He exhaled shudderingly. “Never to me.”

Melkor fell silent because Mairon  _ was  _ losing him; he was losing himself and they both knew it. The truth hummed between them, a mournful baritone born of the fundamental inevitability of their failure. They would be sundered soon, one way or another, though Mairon would escape the Void if Melkor had anything to say about it. Even lost in madness, he knew he could accomplish that much—and he would.

_ Just a little longer,  _ he prayed, or hoped, because his  _ Father  _ certainly wasn’t going to do them any favors. He held his husband tight, pressed his jaw against the crown of his head.  _ Let us be together just a little longer. _

And though none would ever know it, though none would ever conceive of it, Mairon wept—and Melkor wept with him.

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/VJW0gkE)

 


End file.
